


Glass Horizon

by Blackwatch_McCree



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Shotgunning, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Smoking, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7818985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackwatch_McCree/pseuds/Blackwatch_McCree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some plans fall apart quickly - others take years. Or, McCree is in it for the long haul and Reyes barely has a clue what's happening until it's far too late for backups.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a commission for crocochoo on Tumblr! Thank you for commissioning me!

 

See, here’s the funny part: McCree _actually_ believes he’s being subtle about it. McCree actually thinks, as he’s following Reyes around like a puppy-dog in love, that the people around him haven’t noticed. That Ana’s soft smile when she sees him run to bring Reyes coffee is out of fondness of his boyish eagerness. That Angela’s thin-lipped disapproval when he ends up in the medbay is aimed towards his tendency to showboat during missions. That Jack’s kind pat on the back is not one of pity, but encouragement. He really, truly believes this.

Honestly, Reyes scoffs, how stupid can the kid possibly be? McCree wouldn’t have the ability to fool a deaf man with a spoken lie; watching him try to hide his crush is nothing short of painful. Reyes always knows when McCree’s entered the room, even without looking; he can feel the hopeful eyes on him, the quiet yearn for acknowledgement that sets off a foghorn in Reyes’s head even if McCree hasn’t said anything yet.

(One time, after a rough mission, Reyes clapped McCree on the shoulder and told him “good job out there, kid” and McCree almost lost it right there; Reyes would swear he nearly rolled out of the damn plane falling over himself to give an exaggerated salute and an overenthusiastic “Thank you, sir!” - _honestly_ )

But at least McCree’s schoolboy crush is easy enough to ignore, once he gets past Ana’s snickering and Jack’s teasing. And that’s exactly what Reyes plans to do: ignore him, completely, until the puppy-crush fades into the background of their lives, until McCree learns that he is a soldier and Reyes is his Commander and their relationship will never, ever be anything besides strictly professional.

(But see, here’s the funny part about plans: they always have their different ways of falling apart.)

(Here are three.)

\--

McCree’s fallen asleep in the TV lounge again, hat over his face as he curls on his side on the couch. By the time Reyes finds him, the dawn is still a few hours from lighting the horizon and the TV is looping nothing but Spanish infomercials. Reyes is jetlagged to hell and back, but he never sleeps that well after a mission anyway; at this point, the best thing is to just stay awake and fix his schedule even if it means watching two hours of infomercials before the regular schedule of programs kicks back in. His cup of coffee steams in his mug but he’s too tired to make the effort to drink it; instead, he sets it down next to an open bag of chili-covered hard candies.

Reinhardt gave that bag to McCree a few weeks ago for his 19th birthday, Reyes recalls, stealing a small candy from the bag and popping it into his mouth. He settles down on the couch near McCree’s head and rolls the candy around on his tongue, relishing in the spiciness and the heat. The presenter on the TV shows off some kind of new vacuum cleaner. The mundanity of household cleaning products is jarring, but not unwelcome: not 12 hours ago, they were breaking up a trafficking ring in Barcelona. The mission pre-report had listed drugs and illegal arms; it hadn’t mentioned children.

Reyes’s stomach rolls as the candy turns sour in his mouth. He crunches it between his teeth and thinks that the legal drinking age should be lowered in the military. No reason that a kid can legally watch the vengeful, scorched-earth murder of twenty young children and not be able to drown out that sight in liquor afterwards. Hell knows that’s what everyone else did. Hell knows that’s why he passed out in his room an hour after they touched down back at base.

As if on cue, McCree shifts just enough to brush the top of his head against Reyes’s thigh and lets out a low sigh. Kid’s not sleeping, and he’s not as sneaky as he thinks he is. But maybe he’s a little more clever than Reyes has been giving him credit for. Reyes pretends not to notice. His head is still pounding from the hangover. He steals another chili-spiced candy from the bag and thinks that he might need something stronger than the coffee on the table.

If the petty theft bothers McCree, he doesn’t say anything. The infomercial has moved on to some new lawnmower that drives itself by detecting longer patches of grass. When the lawnmower’s finished the job, its front screen flashes a smiley face and chirps a grating, cheerful tune before heading back to its docking station. Reyes wonders what the threshold of uncanniness must be before people start claiming that household tools have souls too. The brotherhood of self-automated dishwashers. The covenant of Roombas.

McCree has been nudging closer, a little bit at a time until his head is firmly and undeniably pressed against Reyes’s thigh. He’s not even trying to pretend any more - he’s staring through half-lidded eyes at the blathering TV, though it’s clear he’s not watching the program. If Reyes ignores it, he’s implicitly allowing it. If he reacts now, he’ll give away that he’s aware of it. He’s not much in the mood for either.

The lawnmower infomercial is still going on. They’ve moved onto the lawn itself now, the host talking excitedly about how evenly and softly cut the grass is. Reyes imagines what kind of apocalyptic event would ever make him this excited about grass. There’s the host laying on the lawn. Cut to a young couple having a picnic. Cut to a golden retriever rolling around with its tongue lolling out. Cut to a pair of young girls, no older than 10 -

\- _greeting them as they break into the main den, strung up by their feet with their throats cut. But they must be close, because the blood is still a steady flow over their chins and faces. Their eyelids are still fluttering but Reyes’s long learned when he’s already lost - if they hurry, they might be able the save the others. Reyes orders the push forward but McCree’s locked up in place, reaching towards one of the bodies, staring through gunfire smoke like a ghost trapped in glass. McCree had sisters, Reyes remembers, a few years younger than him. They would have been about 10 when he joined Deadlock and never saw them again. There’s the glint of a touch-sensitive bomb shoved in the girl’s throat. Reyes lunges forward_ -

\- and changes the channel. Different infomercial, but these hosts are selling gaudy jewelry and gifts that only desperate men would buy to show off their wealth. He can feel his heartbeat in his temple. Maybe the hangover is worse than he thought.

He feels trembling against his thigh, like pressing his leg up against humming machinery. Reyes lets out a deep breath and wishes he hadn’t let his coffee go lukewarm against the table. His mouth is too dry for chili candies. Instead, he leans back and casually places a hand on McCree’s head. He doesn’t run his fingers through the dark brown hair; he just lets the hand lay there, almost like he was going for his thigh and happened to miss.

The trembling stops within a few minutes. The jewelry infomercial changes to one about a retractable awning, and underneath his palm Reyes feels McCree’s breathing turn steady and slow as he finally falls asleep.

\---

Between the two-month deployment schedule getting extended to four months, the weeks and weeks of boring downtime as incompetent higher-ups bickered about what they were even doing in this God-forsaken desert, the fact that their final supply drop never actually arrived, and the ambush on their camp the day of extraction, this is the worst mission that Reyes can remember. Even when they were storming omnic bases outnumbered five-to-one, nothing had ever gone quite as sourly as this extremely poorly-planned wild goose chase.

Days like these are what drive him to smoke. Too bad he hasn’t seen a cigarette in a damn month, since the last supply drop (which Morrison _promised_ had a carton in there, just for him) had never actually showed up. With a ragged sigh, Reyes scans the horizon for the extraction helicopter. He can handle the supply drop getting lost, but if the extraction copter gets held up, he’ll probably actually kill Morrison when they finally do get back to base.  

Soon, he keeps telling himself. Soon this will be over. With a grunt, Reyes sits down on the cliff overlooking their relocated camp and sticks his hands in his jacket pockets. They’ve been packed up for over an hour now, but Reyes specifically instructed them not to make a fire and give away their new position; the ambush this morning may not have ended in any casualties, but he’s got a couple wounded and a whole new set of worries.

To his left, he hears the jangling of a belt buckle. Normally he wouldn’t mind McCree’s presence - hell, the last four months he’s even been somewhat tolerable. But Reyes isn’t feeling particularly charitable right now, and he all he want is his space and his peace. And a cig - a cig would be nice too.

“Hey Commander,” McCree says, taking a seat a little too close for Reyes’s liking. “I’ve got a confession.”

Reyes snorts. “I’m not a priest, and it ain’t Sunday confessional. Whatever secrets you’re keeping, keep ‘em to yourself.”

McCree keeps talking, so either he’s getting too comfortable or Reyes is losing his touch. (It’s the first, he’s certain of it. He’ll rectify that later, when he’s not exhausted.) “Well, Commander, I’ve been holdin’ out on ya.”

Maybe if McCree doesn’t get a response, he’ll go away. Reyes stares ahead and refuses to even look to his side.

“I’ve still got one last cig,” McCree says, and Reyes can’t help but peek out the corner of his eye for a half-second. “And you look like you really need it.”

What a joke. If McCree thinks he’ll accept that kind of pity, then he really is getting too comfortable (or Reyes really is losing his touch, but that can’t possibly be it.) If Reyes accepts, he’ll owe the kid something later. They’ll be back on base within a half-day anyway, and he has the willpower to wait.

“I’m not taking your last cig,” Reyes says.

“It’s a gift,” McCree insists.

“I don’t want it.” Reyes lies, tearing his eyes away from the offered cigarette.

McCree shrugs. “Okay then,” he says, and flicks open a lighter. The flash of light makes Reyes blink in annoyance, but the smell of cigarette smoke makes his nose twitch and his nostrils flare. It’s a testament to his willpower that he doesn’t take a deep breath.

“Commander,” McCree says.

Reyes turns to snap at him to fuck off, and if that smoke gives away their location then McCree is in charge of taking care of every attacker. But his rage dies on his tongue when he sees McCree holding out the cigarette in one last offering. Reyes’s entire body aches looking at the single glowing ember, a red-hot beacon drawing his eye. McCree is savoring the smoke, breathing out slowly, letting it plume around his mouth like Egyptian cotton so thick Reyes could pluck it from the air. The extraction helicopter is still nowhere in sight. Reyes has long learned when he’s lost.

He takes the cig from McCree’s fingers and takes a deep drag, holding in the breath until his lungs start to burn. He exhales in one quick motion, smoke billowing from his mouth like the hiss of a great steam engine. The damn thing’s stale by now but Reyes doesn't care. The desert air afterwards is still a little crisper, a little sweeter. Reyes licks his lips and hands it back to McCree.

They pass it back and forth between them while it lasts. McCree relishes every drag like it’s a gourmet meal and he’s critic, drawing out as much flavor from the tobacco as he can, rolling the smoke around on his tongue. Reyes inhales it like a drowning man bobbing his head above water, drawing in as much smoke as he can, holding his breath until colors spark in the corners of his vision.

When Reyes hands over the cigarette one last time, it’s mostly filter. McCree doesn’t seem to mind, letting the smoke slowly fill his mouth with that same reverent expression, closing his eyes this time. Reyes almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. McCree is genuinely enjoying this - sitting on a rocky cliff after the worst four months of deployment ever, passing back a single stale cigarette back and forth with someone who at best tolerates him on a good day. He’s not even looking for the helicopter; he’s happy where he is.   _Honestly_.

Later, Reyes would blame the tobacco withdrawal. It’s what he’d tell anyone, if they asked (nobody does, but he plans for the worst.) When McCree starts letting the smoke plume out, Reyes leans forward, close enough that their lips aren’t quite touching; he inhales as McCree opens his eyes and freezes in surprise, the smoke so thick between their mouths it feels heavy on Reyes’s tongue.

He stays there even after most of the smoke has been shotgunned; it tastes like shit but gives his lungs that same burn he was looking for. Reyes breathes out after a few more seconds, right into McCree’s face; he creates an opaque white screen around them and for a moment, the two of them are caught in smokey suspension, ghosts trapped in glass, before a chilly desert wind carries it away and the scene is broken.

McCree takes a deep breath and, for once, has nothing to say. Reyes moves back to his original vantage point. He doesn’t say anything either, just feels the comforting buzz in his head from the tobacco. As he settles down, he can feel his heartbeat in his temples, but before he can wonder whether he’s the one at fault letting McCree get too comfortable, he looks over the horizon and sees the dot of the extraction helicopter finally appear.

\---

It’s the worst fight they’ve had in years. Him and Morrison, bellowing at each other up and down the hallways of base - Morrison doesn’t even like yelling, prefers to pull rank to intimidate and keep the “calm, collected Commander” facade he wears like the makeup during a TV interview. (The makeup which just makes him look plastic, like an animated superhero doll that smiles only with its mouth - it’s perfect for his Captain America public persona.) But right now Morrison is full-on screaming, voice almost reaching a fever pitch. People have long scattered, training interrupted, classes dismissed. Reyes isn’t even entirely sure what they’re arguing about any more; it’s been hours.

Finally, Morrison turns and stomps away, calling behind him, “I’m NOT arguing with you about this any more, Gabe!” And usually, Reyes would chase after him, voice even louder as he fuels the fight more. But right now his throat hurts and he’s exhausted and pissed beyond all measure; he whirls around and heads to the workout room instead. His entire body is shaking; if he doesn’t get this energy out, he’ll explode.

He gets a solid thirty minutes of laying into a punching bag with his bare knuckles before the door slides open. Reyes doesn’t have to look to know it’s McCree; he’s the only one who’d dare come in here right now. He’s not here to exercise; hell, McCree would skip mandatory training if he could - no way he’ll voluntarily work out. He’s here because Reyes is here, and Reyes doesn’t have the patience for him right now.

“Howdy, Commander,” McCree greets him.

“Get the fuck out,” Reyes snarls. The next punch across the bag tears his knuckles open, but he hardly notices. All he’s aware of still is his rage racing through his blood, numbing him to everything but its white-hot blaze.

“I figure you could use a sparring partner,” McCree says. “Relieve some of that stress.” He stands there, no intention of moving, because he’s either stupid or suicidal, or maybe both.

Reyes tears the knuckles on his other hand open with one last punch to the bag. He swivels around to McCree and points at the door with bloody fingers. “I said, get the fuck out.”

“One match,” McCree insists. He’s already taking off his Blackwatch chestplate. “Best of three, and then I’ll be gone.”

Reyes considers it, because it’s not actually a bad proposition. So he takes five cathartic minutes to slam McCree into the mat, and then it’s back to the boxing bag. Fine. He could use the change of pace anyway. Without confirming verbally, he stalks over to the wrestling mat, wiping his hands on his pants. McCree follows him dutifully, stretching his arms over his head.

McCree’s filled out since he was first drafted in from Blackwatch. He’s defined muscle against a heavy-set frame now, a far cry from when he was seventeen and nothing but gangly limbs and defensive snarl. If Reyes wasn’t so pissed, he’d almost be a little proud of how much progress McCree has made in the past few years - almost.

They haven’t sparred for a long time, six months at least. Reyes’s recent training regimen has been focusing on endurance and learning how to make the best snap decisions on the battlefield. He’s almost looking forward to thrashing McCree in a spar, despite his initial aversion.

McCree asks if he’s ready. Reyes gives a grunt of affirmation, steels his stance, and then he’s flat on his back and seeing stars, with no clue how he got there; McCree’s knee is digging into his groin and McCree’s arm is pressing across his neck, and Reyes has even LESS of a clue how that happened. So maybe the kid HAS been practicing off-duty. Reyes scrabbles for purchase but ultimately slaps the mat, ending the round.

There’s not a grin on McCree’s face, but there’s definitely one his voice as he says, “Round two?”

Reyes is ready for him this time. He dodges the initial rush and kicks one of McCree’s legs out from under him, unbalancing him just enough to go for the pin. McCree almost stabilizes, but Reyes is just barely faster, tips him over with a punch in the gut and a hand against his neck and McCree crashes down with the wind knocked out of him. A few seconds later, there’s the resounding sound of a slap on the mat.

They break for a minute for McCree to catch his breath and stop coughing. Reyes won’t admit it, but his heartbeat is pumping in his temples and inwardly, he wouldn’t mind extending this to a best-of-five. Outwardly, he sneers at McCree and asks, “Finally ready, brat?”

A bright fire shines in McCree’s eyes this last round; he’s determined to win this one. If he does, he takes the set and Reyes will demand a rematch. His plan is obvious - contrived, even, and Reyes can see through him like looking through the empty rims of fake glasses. _Honestly_. The kid’s always liked to think he’s smarter than he is; sometimes Reyes entertains him, but today he’s not in the mood.

McCree dodges the first grab and sidesteps the leg sweep. He’s a fast learner, Reyes will give him at least that, but he’s still a novice and he’s not going to win. Sure, he might have caught Reyes off-guard the first round, but the element of surprise is always stronger than anyone thinks. The retaliation is a swift punch that catches Reyes on the shoulder - not enough to sting, but enough to throw off his aim and make him graze McCree’s cheek with his fist instead of landing the hit on his nose.

They separate, prowling the edge of the mat. McCree’s head is low, eyes peeking above raised fists. He’s being more defensive, a smart move considering the difference in their weight classes. Oh, McCree may have come a long way from his Deadlock lankiness, but he’s got a long way to go before he can seriously compete with the rest of Blackwatch, much less its Commander.

Reyes strikes first this time, lunging forward and breaking the defense with two punches, back-to-back. They leave bloody smears on McCree’s forearms. McCree ducks under the next punch like an evasive boxer and dashes forward to get a solid hit in on Reyes’s left side. He lands the punch but the whole maneuver was a mistake, because now Reyes can twist with the momentum and lands a roundhouse punch straight into McCree’s cheek.

McCree goes down, instantly. He falls to his knees and spits out a mixture of blood and saliva, tongue darting out to poke gingerly at his freshly-split lip. But he stands back up, eyes still full of fire, as if fueled more by the pain.

This kid… _Honestly_.

It’s not much of a fight after that. McCree gets another hit in but exposes himself again; Reyes catches his side with a harsh kick that was blocked too late, and McCree goes sprawling on the mat, dripping blood from his lip. He tries to lift himself back up but Reyes plants a foot between his shoulderblades, keeping him down.

“I’m not... done yet,” McCree gasps.

“You’re done,” Reyes says. He grinds his foot to make a point. “Hit the mat.”

“No,” McCree says. He tries to roll over but Reyes just presses down harder.

“That’s an order, McCree.”

“No.”

Reyes doesn’t have time for this. “Insubordinate brat,” He snarls. He lifts his foot up to flip McCree onto his back, sitting on his chest, knees on either side of McCree’s ribs. He leans forward and presses his hand to McCree’s neck. “Learn when you’ve lost.”

McCree is wide-eyed and staring up at Reyes, breath constricted by the hand on his neck, and he’s making absolutely no effort to break out of the pin. Instead, he lifts both hands into the air, brings them back down. Reyes starts to get up, expecting the sound of a slap on the mat. Instead, there’s McCree’s hands gripping his thighs, fingernails digging into the fabric of his pants. Reyes raises his hand off of McCree’s neck, but McCree’s breathing is still fast and shallow as he squeezes the muscle underneath his palms. Reyes can see his pupils growing.

 _Honestly_ …

Reyes lifts McCree’s hands off of his thighs and slams them into the mat. “Set over,” He growls, standing back up. “Now get the fuck out and clean yourself up.”

McCree looks at him, a confused expression on his face. Like he’d heard the words but hadn’t understood the order. Reyes repeats it, with significantly less patience this time, and that seems to jolt McCree into action. He bounds up from the mat, almost slips on the blood and spit he’d left earlier, and all but sprints into the locker room. His face is red. He leaves his chestplate on the floor with his shoes.

Reyes gives the punching bag one or two more half-hearted hits, but the energy is gone. After a minute or two, he follows McCree into the showers, heartbeat throbbing in his temples.

\--

The shower is already going on full blast by the time Reyes stalks in, white steam puffing into the main locker room. He unceremoniously piles his clothes on the bench and walks down to the running shower. With little hesitation and even less warning, he pulls the curtain aside.

McCree yelps in surprise, jolting up against the wall he’s got his back to. He’s barely in the spray; his hair’s not even wet, the blood still smeared on his face. He’s gripping his erection in one hand, the other cupping his balls. There’s a bruise already starting to form on his face; that cheekbone is beginning to swell a bit from the impact.

Reyes walks in and doesn’t bother to close the shower curtain behind him. He grabs McCree’s chin with a hand, lifting it up as if he’s inspecting the split lip. McCree hasn’t even bothered to wipe the blood off and in the heat of the shower steam it’s still bleeding, wet and red, dribbling down his chin.

“Cold water will help with the bruise,” Reyes says.

McCree blinks. “Is… Is that your way of telling me to take a cold shower?” He jokes. “Are you saying you’ll keep me warm instead?”

Reyes licks a line from the bottom of McCree’s chin to the split lip, lapping up the blood. That shuts McCree up; he freezes against the wall. Reyes digs his fingernails into McCree’s shoulder, dragging down his arm and leaving five angry red welts (the middle one starts to bead blood along its line before the water washes it away.)  

“You’ve been starin’ at my ass for years now,” Reyes growls, “You gonna just stand there like petrified wood while it’s here in front of ya?”

McCree pulls out of his grasp and drops to his knees so fast Reyes thinks he’s slipped. When he looks down McCree is staring at his thighs with the most reverent expression Reyes has ever seen.  His hands knead at the muscle there; his eyes are wide as saucers. His cock, swollen and hard, throbs between his legs. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he creams himself just feeling Reyes up.

With a hesitant, almost shy motion, McCree leans forward and licks at the inside of Reyes’s thighs. When Reyes doesn’t immediately kick him, he grows bolder, licking a long stripe up to Reyes’s groin, lapping up the mix of shower water and workout sweat. His hands move up to cup Reyes’s ass while he mouths at sensitive skin. McCree groans low in his throat and Reyes can feel the vibration in his balls.

He was half-hard before but now his cock really fills up, twitches against McCree’s cheek as he kisses up to Reyes’s stomach. Reyes doesn’t have the patience for any more romanticism or foreplay; he twists a hand into McCree’s hair and drags those pretty lips down to his cock. McCree doesn’t hesitate; he opens his mouth immediately and takes in as much as he can.

Whatever the kid might lack in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He bobs his head up and down with no rhythm but even less complaint. He moans around the cock like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted; from the blissful expression on his face, eyes half-lidded and his pupils huge, Reyes is inclined to believe it.

McCree is just…he’s just so damn _genuine_ for his reputation; Reyes is used to dealing with snakes hiding beneath the sand, but when he digs into McCree all he finds out is that the kid wears his heart, thoughts, and emotions across his sleeve, right out in the open. When he’s happy, he’s got a grin on his face and a bounce in his step. When he’s upset, it’s obvious in the slump of his shoulders and the mournful look in his eyes. And when he’s having the time of his life sucking cock, well, anyone listening would think McCree was the one receiving the blowjob, not giving it. His moans are loud even around Reyes’s cock, both hands groping desperately at Reyes’s ass.

And Reyes can feel every noise he’s making, from the groans in his throat to the slurping of his tongue; the vibrations make him grip at McCree’s hair even harder, feet trying to dig into the slick tile floor. His knuckles are stinging from the hot water, his left side throbbing where McCree had managed to land those two hits earlier. Reyes claws at McCree’s shoulder again with his free hand; the feeling of skin underneath his fingernails makes his breath hitch and his stomach tighten.

He makes the mistake of looking down. The kid’s looking back up at him with the stupidest, most naive expression - it’s a mixture of hopeful and excited and happy-to-please, like he really thinks that sucking Reyes’s dick might end up being something more than a one-time tryst in the showers. Maybe he’s not wrong, but he’s not going to end up being exactly right, either. Reyes is always going to take the set in the end, 2-1.

But right now, with his blood still pumping from the spar and the argument with Morrison, it’s that look that makes Reyes’s teeth clench as his toes curl. He leans over and bucks into McCree’s throat, listens to him gag and almost choke and try to pull away, but his back is to the wall and his hair is gripped in Reyes’s fingers and there’s nowhere to go. McCree tries to take deep breaths through his nose as he whimpers pathetically in protest; that sound is the final straw and Reyes grunts as the sensations of the world around him disappear for a second and all he feels is the heat of cumming into that wanting mouth.

McCree _does_ choke now, coughing and sputtering in response to the heady taste, cum spilling out of his mouth and dripping over his bottom lip and chin. Reyes lets him stay there for a few more seconds, listens to him gag and feels McCree’s throat expand and clench in rapid succession around his twitching cock. When he does let McCree go, the kid falls to his hand and dry-heaves into the drain. Reyes backs up into the hot spray of the shower, washing the spit off his dick and running the water over his knuckles one last time.

The shower has steamed up the entire locker room by now. Reyes sneers at the thinness of the standard-issue towels. He wipes away the excess water and decides just to deal with the dampness it left behind. He steps into his pants and pulls his sweaty shirt over his head; it’ll do until he gets back to his own room for a change of clothes.

“Commander,” he hears from the direction of the shower. Reyes doesn’t have to turn around to see the hopeful look in McCree’s eyes, the yearn for acknowledgement. It sets off a foghorn in his head.

Reyes heads towards the door but stops at another plea of _Commander_ , this one even more pathetic than the last. _Honestly_ , Reyes almost curses. McCree’s not this stupid, so why is he acting like he is?

Reyes turns just enough to throw a glare out the corner of his eye. “Like I said earlier, brat, learn when you’ve lost,” he says, and steps out the door. He leaves McCree reaching through the shower-steam, frozen in place, like he’s caught in suspension, like he’s a ghost trapped in glass.


End file.
